


Tales In Gold and Fire

by Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)



Series: A Path From the Fire [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avari, Don't copy to another site, Families of Choice, GFY, Languages, Noldor - Freeform, Third Person Limited POV, Women Being Awesome, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 22:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20983658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/pseuds/Morgyn%20Leri
Summary: A tale of the First Age from the Rising of the Sun to just before Dagor Bragollach, following the footsteps of women who are never mentioned in the Silmarillion, but must exist.Morigâlæ, walking from the great grasslands north of Helcar, caught up in the story of Fingon and Maedhros.Aredhel, who is more than a footnote in the story of brother, husband, cousins, or son.Airafalma, Aelheryn, and Lúlëmityelpë, who were never even given names in the tales, barely even footnotes in the lives of their Fëanorian husbands.





	1. From Galdelaisolos to Mithrim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lferion for encouragement, sanity-checking, and plotting assistance!
> 
> Language notes are at the end of each chapter. Non-english words may be from/derived from the primitive quendian word list, from neo-khuzdul, from quenya, or from sindarin. The end-notes will include source.
> 
> Notes at the end of the work have the cast list with all the names used for each character, and will be updated with each chapter.

The arrival of the strangers in the far west had come in whispers even to her people, brought by those who traded with Eryn Galen. Kweni, yes, but strangers all the same, fell and bright even in the starlight, who dared to fight against the creeping horror in the north that stole people away. There are few who will fight, even among her own scattered people, most preferring to flee when the horror comes too close to their homes.

Her brothers argue that a willingness to fight the horror is not enough reason to travel so far from the shores of the sea on which their parents woke or the wide plains which provide them with all they have needed. Her sister says nothing, but makes sure she has all the supplies she needs for such a journey, and a handful of potential trade goods that might excuse her arrival to the strangers.

That it includes the knives her sister brought back from those who had settled across the mountains to the east, she does not comment. They are better even than the knives made of the metal dug from the bogs along the sea, fine and true, that do as well as their own phaja to warn of the twisted ones the horror has made.

That the elder of her brothers insists that if she must go, she shall take the zagr he had traded long years of work to the smith for. She is going too close to the horror for knives to suffice, and they all know how to use the zagr. She prefers her staff, bound and capped with bog-metal, but she does not turn down the zagr.

"And what will you do if nukottî come here?" Morigâlæ rests a hand on the head of the hound carrying her packs, watching Krumbitê steadily.

"I will trade the chunk of star-metal I found, and some bog-metal, for new zagâr for Teñwê, Mizdê and I. Perhaps one of the breeding hunt-hounds and her litter to have zagâr for Mizdê's husbands." He shrugs, unworried about that. Still worried about her, as he always is. "Come home whole, torittâ, phaja and srawâ."

"Whole or not at all. I will not let the horror take me." It is why anyone who travels in the north always carries a knife with a sharp edge. Better to be without hroa than to be taken. And nukottî cannot steal away phaja without srawâ.

The wheel of the stars is guide enough when she parts from the south-leading coast of the sea, west and west across the Great River, and along the northern hills of the pale mountains that block warm winds from the south, to where a path paces between a shallow river and the eaves of a forest. She has taken rest with her hound, encamped for a time, when a great silvery light rises into the sky.

It brightens the path, and she thinks it will make seeing the twisted ones easier at greater distance, though what makes it, and why it has some when all they have had before are the stars, she doesn't know. Her hound whines, uncertain himself of this new thing, and she reassures him with scratchings and soft words.

The silvery light has passed over their heads seven times when another light rises, bright and terrible as fire upon the grass, and she cannot find it in her to soothe him, only to race for the river, where if fire there be, they might wait it out.

Indeed, her eyes water as if filled with smoke, and there is heat beating upon her skin, but the air itself tastes as cool and clear as water from a spring. She doesn't know how it can be, and huddles next to the river until the light fades into familiar shadows. How long it will be until that terrible light comes again - if it comes again - she does not know.

It comes again and again, it and the silvery light, drowning out the stars for a time she cannot name, until it settles into some steady passage. Still it drowns out the stars when it comes overhead, but it does not burn the grass or the forest, and the stars are still there when the anâroglajâ is gone.

The anâroglajâ passes thirty times over her head as she follows the river to the sea, and finds a way there to pass over it, though she must tie her hound to her that he is not swept from her in the currents between the marshes that line the mouths of the river.

Three times that again as she walks the long shoreline, through the mouths of two more rivers, and seeing not a kweni until she comes near a forest that reaches down to the shore. Those there share with her stories they have heard from the west of the strangers she is seeking, and trade her bog-metal and supplies for some of the spices Mizdê packed, and the services of her hound that they have new blood for their own.

She travels on along the shore, bog-metal and waybread in the packs her hound carries, and the soft blankets and spices she did not trade in her own pack. Fifteen passes of the anâroglajâ to another river-mouths, and beyond, kweni gathered in buildings of wood and stone like those in the Wall of the East. Here, there are more stories again, and direction to take her closer, and some little trade of spices for local plants that she has nothing of in the east.

Up the river she has crossed, past one river and the humming eaves of a forest that whispers of unwelcome, to where a second river joins this one. Cross the river where there is a road and a ford, and find the first river that joins it, follow it to the mountains. Here, she rests for a time, though she keeps wary watch to the north. Too close to the horror that has stolen so many away, for the strangers are closest to it of all kweni.

None of the twisted come, then, or as she climbs the mountains until she finds the source of the river. From there, the anâroglajâ passes fourty times over her head as she seeks passage through the mountains, and descends to the other side. Her hound is thin, and she too, but they live, and that is enough for her to rest once more.

There is a narrow river that she finds as she walks the hills below the mountains, going west and north, and it is as good a choice to follow as any path.

Along it, too, she finds kweni, and they do not tell stories of distant strangers as she heard even unto the forests along the sea, but of friends who bring new words and new customs and new trade. Zagâr they have, made of metal they call steel that shines as blades forged by the khazâd that trade in the Hithaeglir and the Wall of the East.

They live around the lake called Mithrim, and north of it in Hithlum, and some few south of it too. The kweni here - Sindar, they call themselves - do not think these strangers will wish much of what she has to trade, but it is not trade that has brought her over rivers and mountains from her home.

"You would be better to remain here, and trade with us your iron and your spice and your wool." The Sindar nís who'd given her shelter to sleep twists her mouth in an expression of disquiet. "Though I wonder that you came so far on stories."

"Why else would I come so far from my home? If I want for trade, there are enough who come to us to make it worth our while." Morigâlæ brushes her hound's coat, combing out burrs that he's picked up along the river.

"It is said that even stories of the West could not budge your people from the woods where all edhil awakened." She watches Morigâlæ, that earlier disquiet still lurking in her expression.

"To walk all of us, with children, past the places of the horror, for the distant promise of a new home?" Morigâlæ scoffs, shaking her head. "Of course we would not travel for such a thing, when we had a home already."

"But for stories of people?"

"For those, I would travel, yes. Though not all of my people would do the same, and certainly not those who went over the Wall of the East. They do not send others out in trade, but wait for us to come to them."

"Then you will travel on. Take care when you go. They are fierce in their anger at the Master of Angband, and I do not know what they will think of those who live so far from Angband as not to need to fight as much as those who are closer."

"They may think what they will. I have no fear of fighting the nukottî, who still yet come even unto the east." Morigâlæ brushes a hand over the zagr that hangs at her side. "I know well to use this, and have before."

Nothing more is said, and when she departs, she trades two soft blankets for waybread, dried river fish, and some winter-dry fruit.

Following the river brings her to a lake swathed in mist that smells of faintly of rotten eggs and lightning-strike, and burns faintly at her eyes and throat. Her hound likes it even less, and will not go further with her. So she takes the packs onto her own back, and sends him back toward the Sindar who had given her direction.

She doesn't know how many passes of the anâroglajâ it takes to find the camp of strangers on the lake, walking around it and through a narrow river that feeds into it. Their speech is strange and almost familiar at once, and they and she both know enough of the Sindar's speech to speak a little. Enough to be permitted entrance to their camp, and to garner someone a bit of student and a bit of teacher.

It is little enough to begin from, though it seems the entire camp around waits for something, though she cannot discern what. Only that they all seem to breathe again when a great bird passes over their heads, and leaves behind two that are swiftly bundled away.

The next rise of the anâroglajâ, she makes an offer to teach her companion something new to cook, thinking perhaps she might find - or make - a chance from it to stay.

A chance that some would later curse, and of which she never regretted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People:  
Morigâlæ - the primary OC of the story, her name is primitive quendian "dark light"  
Krumbitê - the elder of Morigâlæ's two brothers-by-blood, his name means "left-handed"
> 
> Words:  
kweni (primitive quendian) - people  
phaja (primitive quendian) - spirit/soul  
zagr (neo-khuzdul) - sword (specifically used in this case to indicate the kind of sword first made by dwarves, and adopted by the avari)  
nukottî (primitive quendian) - stunted or ill-shaped thing/person with a plural ending (in this case, meaning orcs)  
torittâ (primitive quendian) - sister (from "tor" - brother - and "-ittâ" - a feminine ending)  
srawâ (primitive quendian) - body  
anâroglajâ (primitive quendian) - fire-bright (derived from anâro "fire" - isolated from phaj-anâro "spirit of fire", and glajâ "bright light")  
nís (quenya) - (elf)woman  
edhil (sindarin) - elves


	2. Aredhel, Fingon, and Fingolfin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morigâlæ meets three of the royal family of the Noldor, and tells a tale of a favored food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commonly known (usually Sindarin) names and the Quenya names of characters showing up in this chapter (or mentioned):
> 
> Aredhel - Irissë  
Fingon - Findekáno, Finno  
Fingolfin - Nolofinwë  
Maedhros - Maitimo, Neylafinwë Fëanorion

"You walked here from Cuiviénen?"

Morigâlæ looks up from the pot she is stirring, Vílë beside her having gone a still at the approach of the one speaking. Someone of importance, then, though she looks little older than Mizdê's daughter. Too young to be a Kwenekwe, certainly.

"No. Cuiviénen is a walk of many days to the east of where my people live. We are between the Eryn Galen and the sea on which Cuiviénen also lies." She sits back on her heels, tilting her head as she looks up at the girl. "I remember the wood about Cuiviénen, though. I was born there. We didn't make our home upon the Galdelaigardâ until even Mizdê, my sister, was of age to wed. After so many kweni left for the west."

That had Vílë staring at her as much as the girl, and Morigâlæ sighs, turning back to her student, and reminding Vílë that she needs to watch the pot, and mind it doesn't burn. No need to waste the spices or the rest of it.

The girl sits down beside her, and Morigâlæ glances at her again.

"It's still a very long walk. Why did you walk that far? The Trees no longer live in Valmar."

"I didn't come for any tales of trees. If I wish trees, enough of them there are in the east." Morigâlæ hands her student the spoon, and turns her attention more to the girl. "You are distracting Vílë from her learning to make lunsaphars, that she might know how best to use the spices I brought on all this long way. Why?"

"I am not trying to." The girl sighs, a grimace on her face a moment. "I am Irissë."

Irissë is a name that Morigâlæ has been told of alongside those of her brothers and father, as a prince and his children. She's still not certain what a prince is, unless it is a different sort of title for a Kwenekwe.

"I am Morigâlæ, Kwenekwe of the Galdelaikweni aud Solos."

Irissë frowns, her brow furrowing. "What does being Kwenekwe of them mean?"

"That I may speak for my kin in council, or in dispute." Morigâlæ shrugs, glancing at the pot that Vílë is now diligently watching. Either carefully ignoring them, or equally as carefully listening. "Is your father not a Kwenekwe among your people?"

"He's a prince among the Noldor." Irissë smiles proudly, though it falters when Morigâlæ blinks at her. "I don't know if that would be as a Kwenekwe among your people."

"What does a prince do?" Perhaps that can tell her better how she should think of such.

Irissë is silent for a moment, staring at Morigâlæ. "A prince leads his people and follows his king."

Something perhaps a bit like a Kwenekwe, and certainly to treat as such. The person she should speak with as to trading, and who must have been consulted as to her remaining here among these strangers. At least, he seems the most likely.

"Than if I were to speak of trade more than what I brought upon my back, it is to him I should speak, yes?"

It will be hours yet before the lunsaphars is ready to share, and she would bring it to open such speaking, as she would closer to home when she would seek trade with others - or they would bring to her if they sought out her for trade. But it is better to wait than to be too eager and risk the bargaining.

"Bringing things to sell them? You don't need to talk to atar about that, I don't think. Not once there's a city and a market."

"Market? Like the khazâd have at Mebaru Nu'an, where trade is between one person and another?" Morigâlæ shakes her head. "No, not that. It would be of many people, not of one person with a hound or two worth of goods. Between the Noldor of Mithrim and the Galdelaikweni aud Solos."

"Noldor of Nolofinwë, actually. We are people under our king or prince, not people of a place."

As the kweni had been before the sundering. Morigâlæ nods an acknowledgement of Irissë's words, checking on the pot.

"I can tell my father you want to speak to him. If you'd like." Irissë is watching her, and Morigâlæ shrugs.

"It is not something of which I need speak now. When the lunsaphars is ready shall be soon enough."

"Why wait until the lunsaphars is ready to eat?"

Morigâlæ turns her head to stare at Irissë a long moment. Either she is younger than she looks, or the Noldor do not remember the politeness she learned from her youth.

"It would be rude to come asking for such an agreement empty-handed, or to ask to negotiate on an empty stomach."

Irissë is staring back, as if she has uttered something strange. "The host provides refreshments, and meals, and quarters, even to someone come as petitioner in some arrangement."

"Sharing of fire and tents, and the mutual making of meals is what happens after, or if one is merely visiting." Morigâlæ shakes her head, certain now that the Noldor must have forgotten something while they were parted from the rest of the kweni.

Irissë stares a moment more before letting out a gusty sigh, pushing to her feet, and stalking away, leaving silence in her wake for long moments.

"Forgive Lady Irissë, please. It is her brother the eagle brought back, and he has been missing for weeks now." Vílë is checking the pot, though she flinches back a moment after sniffing the air above it. Unused to the spices that Morigâlæ has brought.

"I thought I saw two being taken from the eagle." A bird so large is beyond what Morigâlæ has ever seen at home, and she has been trying not to think about it. At least it seems not to be inclined to eating people.

Vílë is silent a moment, pressing her lips together. "The High King. Nelyafinwë Fëanorion."

Morigâlæ waits, but there is no elaboration forthcoming, either of why he had arrived on the eagle or why Vílë dislikes him. "Was he missing, too?"

"Not missing, it was known where he was." She pauses. "Captive of Morgoth, though, I have heard."

"And Irissë's brother was yet able to rescue him?" Morigâlæ lets out a soft huff of surprise. "He must not have been held long, to still be himself enough to be brought out of Ngurondô."

Vílë gives her a confused look a moment. "Is that what your people call Morgoth's halls?"

"If Morgoth is the one who keeps stealing people to twist into something that does not even know its own kin, yes." Morigâlæ wonders what the Noldor call the twisted, if they have a name yet for those creatures.

"We call it Angband, and the smoking mountain at its gate is Thangorodrim."

"All of it is Ngurondô. It is where horror lives, and none that have been taken there have come out before."

Silence falls for a while, not entirely companionable, as they keep watch over the pot. Broken only with the sounds of Irissë talking to someone as she approaches once more. Or talking at someone, as there is no reply to anything she says that Morigâlæ can hear.

"Sit." Irissë tugs the youth down with her as she suits her actions to words, leaving space enough for him between her and Morigâlæ.

He has hair the color of the sky before the anâroglajâ or silimâ had come, braided with gold, and he drops to the ground heavily, shoulders bowed. Not even looking up to see who Irissë has brought him to.

"This is my brother, Findekáno." Irissë pokes him in the shoulder until he looks up, blankly looking at a point somewhere between Morigâlæ and Vílë. "Finno, this is the person I said you should talk to."

"I." Findekáno stops, and shakes his head, shifting as if he's about to get up again. "I should go back."

"No." Irissë clamps a hand on his arm, hard enough that Findekáno winces. "The healer said you're to stay out of her way until she sends someone to fetch you. And that you're to eat something, sleep, and think about something else for at least the rest of the day."

"Maitimo..."

"Is alive and home because of you." Irissë holds Findekáno's gaze until he sighs, and looks away.

"If you brought him alive and himself out of Ngurondô, all else is healing and patience." Morigâlæ reaches for her pack, pulling out the last of the waybread to share, and looks up to meet an astonished gaze. "Why do you stare? Have I overstepped?"

"No." Irissë answers before Findekáno can manage words, though he opens his mouth as if to speak. "You haven't overstepped."

"Himself?" Findekáno's voice is sharp as a good knife, and he doesn't look away from Morigâlæ as he speaks. "And how would you call him himself?"

Morigâlæ holds out the waybread to him, waiting until he takes it. "Did he try to gut you when you found him? Did he eat from the corpse of his own kin?" Now they're all staring at her, and Findekáno mutely shakes his head. "No? Then he is enough himself, and you have done well to bring him out of Ngurondô."

"Those questions were frighteningly specific." Irissë is almost as pale as her gown.

"They are things nukottî have done, even when their kin could still recognize their faces." Morigâlæ shrugs, shoving away memories that would not do well to encourage anyone. "Everyone I have met who has not come from over the western sea knows tales like that."

There is silence for a long moment, before Irissë pokes Findekáno again, and he makes an irritated noise.

"Eat that, Finno. And then you can ask Morigâlæ why to talk about trade, she would bring the person she wants to talk to something to eat."

Findekáno blinks, and Irissë rolls her eyes, taking a piece of the waybread from him. When he scowls at her, and opens his mouth as if to speak, she stuffs it into him, and glares back until he eats it. And the rest of what he'd been handed.

"Why am I supposed to be asking about that, Irissë?"

"Because it's different, and because it's not worrying about Maitimo!"

"I'm not going to stop worrying about Maitimo just because you think you found an interesting puzzle!" Findekáno moves, half-standing before Irissë grabs his arm to keep him from getting any further. "Let me go, Irissë!"

"No. Sit back down. The healers are just going to throw you out again, and no one wants you moping outside the healing hall all night!" Irissë tugs firmly on his arm, making him sit back down with a thump. She doesn't let go of his arm this time, perhaps not trusting him to just get up and leave. "You're going to stay with me, or I will tell Arakáno to sit on you."

Findekáno snorts, but he doesn't try to get up again. Silence falls again, broken only by the quiet bubbling of the lunsaphars in the pot. The anâroglajâ has shifted in the sky enough to notice before anyone speaks further, though Irissë and Findekáno have a shoving match without words for a little while. Irissë seems to win, sitting on her brother when he falls back against the ground with a frustrated growl.

"What was my sister talking about, that she wanted me to ask you, Lady Morigâlæ?"

Morigâlæ lets out a soft huff. "I am not a Lady, just a Kwenekwe of my people. And she does not seem to understand that to come to someone to ask of trade - indeed, of any bargaining - without providing a meal which to fill bellies before negotiations may begin is a rudeness."

"Bringing a gift to show you're not coming empty-handed?" Findekáno shoves at Irissë, who gives him a long look. He just stares back until she lets him sit up, though she continues to sit in his lap as if to anchor him. "Why food?"

"Food is always of use. Nothing else can be said to be the same." Morigâlæ takes a taste of the lunsaphars, nodding to herself. Not done yet, but coming along nicely. Soon.

"So it is useful for opening any kind of negotiation, not just trade." He is blinking slowly, staring at the pot bubbling away. There's a moment where a dull flush creeps up his cheeks, but it quickly drains away, leaving him something between sallow and grey.

"Trade, courtship, politics, yes. Anything where one might ask another for something in turn when that someone is not close-kin. To do otherwise is to take without giving, and one should never be so rude."

"And close-kin for Avari is?" Findekáno meets her gaze, something glimmering in the depths of his own that she can't put a name to.

"Siblings, parents, children. Cousins raised in common, which are not often. It is easier for the horror to find larger groups, and not everywhere is Eryn Galen or the Khîtikelun, hiding beneath trees and mist."

Findekáno lets out a soft huff. "And when those Morgoth sends from Angband do find those who have no trees or mist to hide them, who do they have to fight beside them?"

"Fight?" Morigâlæ shakes her head. "We run. Only if we cannot run do we fight, and it has been long and long since nukottî found any of the Galdelaikweni aud Solos to take back to the horror to twist in turn. Those of the northern grasses - Galdelaikweni aud Phoroti - still speak of nukottî coming regularly, but few and easily dispatched. Others, I have less knowledge of."

"Your people run from Morgoth's armies, but you still came here?" Findekáno tilts his head. "Why?"

"If there are those who would choose to come from where they were safe to fight the horror, should I not be curious?" Morigâlæ mirrors Findekáno's head-tilt, watching him steadily. "The stories speak of fell and bright strangers who hounded the horror unto the very grasses before Ngurondô. Tales that came even to our distant grasses. Why would I not come for tales such as this?" She sighs, looking away, toward where Mithrim is still shrouded in mist. "A place is not enough to risk the horror. A people may be."

"Tales of my cousins and uncle and those they brought across on the ships." There's a bitter twist to Findekáno's mouth a moment before he shakes his head. "We arrived with the rising of the daystar, across the Helcaraxë."

"So you had the greater journey, and all the more cause to bring you here." Morigâlæ pokes at the fire under the pot, adding a few more small sticks as she stirs it up. "And the Sindar of the river I followed here spoke more of those who live upon the northern shores of this lake than upon the southern, and here you are. So unless your cousins are here upon the northern shore too, than they speak more and better of you than of them."

"They do?" Findekáno sits up a little straighter, then slumps back down. "It does not speak well of my cousins. And I would not wish them to be ill-thought of, for all their faults."

Morigâlæ is silent a moment, leaving that to have room to rest a little. "Whether of their people or yours, all are spoken of kindly by those who bring trade from here east and east over the Ered Luin, over the Hithaeglir to Eryn Galen. From there to the Galdelaigardâ, north and south, and to the Maintaurê, and across the Wall of the East."

"Would that we could all speak so well of each other." Findekáno lets out a short, soft laugh, shaking his head. "Perhaps one day we shall speak so well of each other as your people do of us."

"Perhaps you will." Morigâlæ watches him a moment. "But enough of such things that bring a bitterness to your face." She pauses, looking at the pot a moment. "Let me tell you the tale of how this came to be, mm?"

"What is it?"

"Lunsaphars, we call it." Morigâlæ reaches to scoop a little out into her bowl, offering the taste to Findekáno. "My brother came home from Mebaru Nu'an with a zagr and a fondness for this. It has spread among the Galdelaikweni aud Solos because of him."

"Zagr? I don't know that word." Findekáno accepts the bowl, sniffing at the contents.

"It is from the khazâd. It is their word for the weapons they taught us to make of bog-metal and star-metal, so we use it for those blades they make." She pats the blade at her side, and Findekáno glances at it.

"Oh. A sword. My uncle made the first of those I had yet seen." Findekáno takes a small bite from the lunsaphars, and a moment later, yelps in surprise. "That bites!"

Morigâlæ laughs, rescuing the bowl before he can drop it. "Of course it does. Even when it is made sweet, ginger always bites. It is not as great a bite as some variations of lunsaphars have, but I did not bring any of the yávurúva with me."

Findekáno reaches out to take the bowl again, curling his hands around it once Morigâlæ lets it go. "I think I might want to try some of those, if ever you bring them west. At least so long as someone warns me when the food bites back."

"If it is called arsul by the khazâd, it will always bite back." Morigâlæ pauses, a smile curling her lips. "The yávurúva were bred, I have heard, by a khuzd and one of the Khîtikweni who weaves fire into their workings, to find something that burned enough to satisfy the khuzd in their quest for a dish as hot as a forge."

"I would think that would sear a person's tongue." Findekáno lets Irissë steal a bite from the bowl, grinning at how she blinks a moment. "You should get your own bowl, Irissë."

"I will, if it is ready to eat, rather than just a taste." Irissë looks over at Morigâlæ, who tilts her head. Cooked enough to eat, though the flavor will yet deepen if it is left upon the fire. "Then, if you will promise you shall stay right here until I return, Finno, I shall get my own bowl to eat from."

When she had gone, Findekáno turns a little to face Morigâlæ. "So you promised a story of how this came to be."

"So I did." Morigâlæ shifts, folding her legs and sitting straighter upon the ground. "Long and long ago, over the Wall of the East, there lived the Khîtikweni upon the shores of the river which hid them from the horror of the north. There they grew all manner of food in one place, for they did not need to travel as other kweni, and they discovered and made many a new spice or food which they shared across the Wall of the East to their kin.

"Then came down from the mountains a stranger, as once came a stranger to the Awoken who lived at the headwaters. And this stranger gave their name as Mag to the Khîtikweni they met, and challenged first one, then another, to make them a dish which burned as hot as a fire. None could do such a thing, and so Mag kept traveling.

"One day they came upon a weaver in their garden, and made that same challenge. And the galgardâweirê laughed, and brought them into their home, where they laid a pale golden root upon the board, slicing it thin as onion skin.

"These they cooked with a little river fish and a little onion, and set it before Mag, who ate it, and said that it was a flame, perhaps, but they had sat before fire that burned with greater strength than this.

"So the galgardâweirê smiled, and once more sliced some of the pale gold thin, and beside it, they laid a star-white bulb, which they cut as fine as river sand, and this they cooked only a little with wine and garden-rabbit, and set before Mag.

"This too was eaten, and Mag said that it had burned bright and sharp, but it burned too swift, like sparks struck by hammer upon an anvil that are gone before they touch the floor. But it was good.

"The galgardâweirê was not daunted, and told Mag to stay but a while longer, rest upon their couch, and they would give them something even better when they rose. Mag agreed, though they were not certain the galgardâweirê would give them the dish they craved.

"So once more the galgardâweirê set to cooking. Into a pot upon the fire, they put pale golden root shredded to threads as fine as they wove. Star-white bulb crushed until it was as paste. Sharp golden-white onion sliced so thin one could see the stars through them. Wine and wild bird and curling spice-bark.

"Upon the fire, they stirred it, tasting it a little here and there. Copper-bright root, spice-nut, and black-seed ground fine as dust. And still it cooked upon the fire, until Mag woke, and came to ask if they had made something that would burn as a fire.

"The galgardâweirê put before Mag a bowl with curling steam rising above it, and smiled. Waiting.

"As those before, Mag ate it all, and when they were done, they sat back, and nodded. For indeed it burned as fire, and the burn did not fade too swiftly, though it still faded more swiftly than Mag desired. And they called it ars, and the galgardâweirê called it lunsaph, and they named it between them.

"That was not the end of Mag and the garden-weaver, but to tell of the making of yávurúva is another story again." Morigâlæ smiles, glancing up at the dêr who has come following Irissë near the end of the story, both holding bowls, and a third that is swiftly handed to Findekáno. "One I may yet tell today."

Out of the corner of her eye, Morigâlæ can see Vílë's eyes widen, as if she had not truly expected the company that has come with Irissë, and who sits now between Irissë and Findekáno. Their father, perhaps?

"I might ask to hear the tale you have been telling my son, later, if you would be willing to tell it again." The dêr - Nolofinwë, he must be - passes his bowl to Morigâlæ to be filled, after Irissë and Findekáno have had their own filled.

"Tales are meant to be told." Morigâlæ shrugs, filling her own bowl, and digging the plate from her pack to fill for Vílë, so none of them go hungry. "Perhaps after all have eaten."

Nolofinwë nods, fishing a spoon out of a belt pouch so he can dig into his lunsaphars. Silence holds reign once more while all take their first few bites of the meal, though only for a moment before there are appreciative noises to punctuate the clatter of spoons against bowl rims. It is good to have it so well-received.

"Irissë said you wished to speak with me." Nolofinwë rests his bowl on his knee after it is emptied, watching Morigâlæ over the fire and pot.

Morigâlæ smiles a moment, nodding once. "Of trade, yes. Not of coming to a market to sell what might be carried by a hound or two, but of what might be brought in a greater caravan."

"What would you be bringing, and what would you expect in return?"

"Spices from the Galdelaigardâ and the eastern slopes of the Wall of the East, bog-metal, wool from the Galdelaikweni aud Phoroti, these I can bring in trade. What in return? I do not know what you have to trade, that I could ask for."

"At the moment, very little. We have only been on these shores since the rising of the daystar, and are still establishing ourselves here." Nolofinwë lets a small, swift smile that speaks more of apology than of anything else cross his face. "Though once we are, Noldor are craftspeople. Any goods we may create, those we may trade."

"Mm." Morigâlæ stirs what remains in the pot, making sure it hasn't stuck to the bottom. "Than I would ask if I might remain here until you may have such things, that I will know what might be traded for."

"I will welcome what aid you can provide, though I would know what you can do."

Morigâlæ smiles, one corner of her mouth curling up. "I am the eldest of my close-kin, and learned to hunt beneath the eaves of Maintaurê, and later on the Galdelaigardâ. I am Kwenekwe for my kin, and have spoken in Council, though not as Kwenekwedela. I have stood between nukottî and my kin, and had success in keeping them from my jôtorî."

"Mm. And of crafts?" Nolofinwë is watching her, his expression that of Kwenekwe still mulling over what they have heard before they speak in their turn.

"I am eldest, edela. I patched their hurts as children, helped to feed them, to make their clothes from wool spun and woven and from the hides of those creatures of the forest we hunted." Morigâlæ shrugs. "Nothing of great artistry."

"And you tell tales well." Findekáno holds out his bowl in a silent request for more, and Vílë fills it before Morigâlæ can do so. "That is no little craft itself."

"But it is not craft." Morigâlæ frowns. "It is history and knowledge that all learn at the knee of their elders. Memory, to know the tales well, and to tell them as they were."

"To tell them so others will listen and learn is craft indeed." Nolofinwë's lips twitch in something that could be a smile. "One that would do well for us to learn, for we know little of those who inhabit this land, save that they are here."

Morigâlæ tilts her head in acknowledgement, quiet for a moment. "Than I shall tell those tales I know, of the Galdelaigardâ, of Eryn Galen and Maintaurê, of the Khîtikelun and the Wall of the East. Of kweni and of khazâd. But I do not know much of the tales of this land. What I know I learned in the walking."

"Even those tales would be more than we as yet know, and will be welcome." Nolofinwë nods, almost to himself. "You may remain, as my guest, and we shall welcome what you may bring in tale and in the work of your hands."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Places:  
Cuiviénen - the birthplace of elves, where the first elves awoke beneath the stars  
Galdelaigardâ - the grasslands between Eryn Galen in the west, the Orocarni in the east, the Iron Mountains in the north, and the Sea of Helcar in the south  
Mebaru Nu'an - River's Cradle, a dwarven settlement in the Orocarni between the headwaters of two rivers  
Ngurondô - Angband and Thangorodrim, usually conflated as one place by Avari groups living in the east beyond the Misty Mountains  
Eryn Galen - the forest that becomes Mirkwood  
Khîtikelun - River of Mist, the river called Hîthduin in Gaearon Rhûnen in the Second and Third Ages  
Maintaurê - the forest on the eastern shores of the Sea of Helcar, that surrounds Cuiviénen, and the first home of the elves  
Wall of the East - another name for the Orocarni, usually used by Avari elves
> 
> People (individuals, titles, groups):  
Vílë - a Noldor who has taken it on herself to help and also watch Morigâlæ  
Kwenekwe - Speaker, a title among the Galdelaikweni for leaders of kin-groups  
Galdelaikweni aud Solos - People of the Surf Grass, Avari elves who live on the grasslands, particularly those who live along the shoreline of the Sea of Helcar  
Galdelaikweni aud Phoroti - People of the North Grass, Avari elves living on the grasslands that lie closer to the Iron Mountains  
Khîtikweni - People of Mist, Avari who went over the Orocarni and settled along the Hîthduin  
Kwenekwedela - First Speaker of the clan, a title among the Galdelaikweni for clan leaders
> 
> Words:  
lunsaphars (mixed languages) - derived from quenya lunga "heavy", sindarin salph "broth/soup/liquid food", and neo-khuzdul -ars "spicy"  
silimâ (primitive quendian) - silver/shining white  
yávurúva (quenya) - fruit like fire (chili peppers)  
galgardâweirê (primitive quendian) - garden-weaver, someone who breeds plants (derived from gal "growth", gardâ "bounded place", and weirê "weaver")  
dêr (primitive quendian) - man  
jôtorî (primitive quendian) - siblings (derived from jô "together, more than two", tor "brother" and -î as a plural ending), usually used by the Galdelaikweni to indicate close-kin of a similar age, whether blood-siblings or cousins raised together


	3. Words Shape the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor arrives, and will not let anyone keep him from seeing his brother. Fingon tells, in brief, the rescue of Maedhros.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commonly known (usually Sindarin) names and the Quenya names of characters showing up in this chapter (or mentioned):
> 
> Maglor - Kanafinwë, Makalaurë  
Fingon - Findekáno Nolofinwion, Finno  
Maedhros - Maitimo, Russandol

It has been four passes of Anâroglajâ since Nolofinwë had agreed to let her stay, to tell the histories and the tales that speak of knowledge all should have. With each golden-lit time - a day, the Noldor call it - she finds different faces among those who come to listen to her tell what she has learned. And some the same - Irissë, always moving even when seated on the ground to listen; Findekáno, asking questions to distract himself from his injured cousin; Vílë, who has decided it is her job to see that Morigâlæ learns as much as she teaches.

Today, Irissë and Findekáno have not come, and Vílë is tense as a strung bow, still and waiting. Few others have come, either, and most of them are looking over and over toward the wall that circles the camp, and the gate in it.

"What has happened, that you are all waiting to know what will come?" Morigâlæ gives up on teaching any of the histories today, if everyone is so on edge. It is as if they have had word of nukottî coming in numbers enough to overwhelm them all.

"The watchers saw a group coming from around the lake, on the path that leads to the Fëanorion camp." Vílë picks at the mending she has with her today, though she isn't truly trying to ply needle. "It is not large enough to be an army, but no one knows who is coming, or what they bring with them."

Morigâlæ is silent a moment, before she nods once. "Than what shall come should be remembered, whatever council may be taken or dispute raised." She pushes to her feet, the handful of Noldor who'd been around her belatedly scrambling to follow her toward the gate. It is strange to have so many in her wake, and Vílë at her side where Krumbitê would walk at home.

There are more strangers, dressed differently than the Noldor who live in this camp, at the gate when she arrives. One who bears a band of beaten metal on his head, and the others look to as he speaks, voice as even as one telling a tale. Dark of hair and bright of eye as any Noldor, with sword belted to his side, and something in his arms that she does not recognize at all.

"I saw the eagle, Nolofinwë. I saw my brother left at your gates - or so I assume, as I have yet to see another whose hair is as his. I would have you take me to him."

"The healers have not allowed anyone in once they shoved my son out, Kanafinwë. I do not think they will allow you into the room any more than they allow Findekáno or myself." Nolofinwë is before the gate, his back stiff with tension that even she can see who knows him nearly not at all. One hand upon the hilt of the sword at his own hip, the other loose and open at his side.

"They will allow me. I am his brother. And if that does not suffice, I am Regent of the High King while Nelyafinwë is indisposed. I will not be gainsayed." There is an edge to Kanafinwë's voice that demands rather than asks, and Morigâlæ shakes her head. Dispute indeed, rather than council, though for what cause, she cannot tell.

Nolofinwë snorts quietly, shaking his head. "Than I will insist you leave your sword and harp both at the gate. Your voice is weapon enough, and I will not have you spill more blood here just because the healers will not risk your brother's recovery for your whims."

Kanafinwë tilts his head, a small and pricise gesture, before glancing over those gathered around the gate. He deposits the thing he's carrying - a harp, though what that means, she still isn't certain - in the arms of one of those who'd followed Morigâlæ and Vílë to the gate, and presents his sword neatly to one of the watchers who'd been there when they arrived.

"Cousin." Kanafinwë turns his head once the sword is taken from him to look past Nolofinwë, and there is Findekáno, looking more weary to her eyes than he has since their first meeting. "I would appreciate the tale of how you rescued Maitimo when all we knew of the enemy said it would be impossible."

Findekáno flashes a brittle smile at Kanafinwë, nodding his head sharply. "It can wait until you've seen him." He gestures sharply, turning on his heel to lead the way into the camp, though only Kanafinwë follows of the strangers. The rest are kept at the gate, watched by those upon the wall.

Morigâlæ follows Findekáno and Kanafinwë, Vílë on her heels radiating tension. There is little enough of what might become story at the gate, and that perhaps best told by others. What will be council or dispute lies with these two and perhaps, too, the one they go to see.

"Are you going to tell me who your guest is, cousin?" There's a lightness to Kanafinwë's voice that is smooth as river stones, and Morigâlæ snorts softly at it.

"I am Morigâlæ, Kwenekwe of the Galdelaikweni aud Solos, and I can tell my own name." She speeds her steps a moment, to walk even with Kanafinwë and Findekáno. "Should I ask Findekáno to tell me your name?"

Kanafinwë laughs, glancing at her with mirth dancing in his pale eyes. "Kanafinwë Makalaurë, son of Fëanor and brother to the High King of the Noldor."

Morigâlæ meets his gaze a moment before turning her attention back to the path they walk between tents and half-constructed buildings. "Why two names?"

"Father-name and mother-name. Most use my mother-name." Kanafinwë shrugs, flicking his fingers as if it is nothing. "Even the Sindar use it, though they have rendered it in their own tongue as Maglor."

"Makalaurë, then." Morigâlæ nods, glancing across Kanafinwë to Findekáno, who has remained silent throughout the exchange. He is not looking at anything much at all, or perhaps is looking past the buildings they're walking to and at his cousin beyond - Nelyafinwë, Maitimo, Nelyo, and nothing to tell her which of those names she should use to call him by if he is well enough to meet.

"You do not wish to render it into yet another tongue?" Makalaurë blinks, though his voice never loses the smoothness of tone.

"Why? It is your name, and it should be said as you have said it." Morigâlæ frowns up at him. "Though how one can be said to cleave laurê rather than smalta, I do not know."

That earns another laugh and another shrug. "You would have to ask my mother what she meant when she gave the name to me."

Silence falls after that, a tension underlying it that Morigâlæ still does not understand, until they stop outside the door of one of the finished buildings, and a healer sits on a rough bench at the door who she recognizes as one of those who has come to listen to her tell of histories twice in the last four days.

"Prince Findekáno." The healer nods to Findekáno, than looks over at Morigâlæ, and past her a moment. "Kwenekwe Morigâlæ. Vílë." Only then does the healer look at Makalaurë, and stand from the bench. Their face is as stone, and when they speak into the heavy silence that has fallen, it is as ice. "Kanafinwë Fëanorion. I expect you're here to demand I allow you to disturb Nelyafinwë."

"I would see my brother." Makalaurë's voice is knife-edge sharp, and she can feel a weight behind it trying to bite deep. "Now."

The healer crosses their arms, shifting a step to their right to stand firmly in front of the door to the building. "Not now, you won't. He is sleeping, and the longer he sleeps, the better he will heal."

"If my brother were going to die, he would have done so already. You will let me in."

Makalaurë is not looking away from the healer, and Morigâlæ can feel the pressure he's using, rising storm-front that has yet to break over them. She draws a deep breath as she widens her stance, bracing against a stiff wind that is nothing physical at all. She hasn't heard someone using such a thing since before Mizdê wed, and even then, it was strictly against nukottî.

There is no verbal reply to Makalaurë's demand, just the rising wind that stirs nothing, and finally, the storm-front passes, and the healer steps aside with a dark glare at Makalaurë.

"The rest of you can wait out here." The healer points at the bench, waiting until Findekáno, Morigâlæ, and Vílë have all sat before they stalk into the building after Makalaurë. Findekáno slumps after a moment, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands, while Vílë holds her untouched mending in white-knuckled fingers.

"Are all Noldor able to use kwettabalî like that?" Morigâlæ pulls her feet up onto the bench, folding her legs as she leans back against the wall. "Or is it just Makalaurë who knows how to use them to make others bend?"

"Not everyone, but not just him." Findekáno's voice is muffled by his hands, but clear enough. "Kano's craft is music, and he knows how to use it as weapon better than most. With his harp, he's better and faster at it."

Which makes a harp some means of making music, though it is not one she has seen before. "Is a harp something that many can play?"

Findekáno raises his head to look at her, before slowly straightening up again. "I don't know how many can, but it's not uncommon an instrument for Noldor or Vanyar. Less so for the Teleri, and I don't know what anyone here might play." He pauses, glancing at the closed door. "I play, and am a fair player besides, if not as good as Kano."

"We have drums and pipes and finger-chimes, and the Galdelaikweni aud Phoroti have a kind of pipe with a bladder that can be heard over the noise of fighting nukottî, and drums they carry in pairs on horses." Morigialæ has heard the bladder-pipes played, and she thinks it might be worth finding one of the players of such to bring them west. Teach those who live closer to the horror about how to make the battle-music of the Galdelaikweni.

"Do you play?" Findekáno tilts his head slightly, as if considering what she's already said.

"Teñwê plays the bone pipe, and Tundândâkô plays drums, but they are the music-makers of my kin, not me. I keep the history, and when there are songs to sing, then I sing them." She shrugs, unconcerned. "Vílë, do you play anything?"

"Nothing I could carry across the ice." Vílë looks away, hands almost absently twisting the fabric she's holding. "I don't know that I will want a new set of bells, even once we can. My sisters played with me in Tirion. They can't here."

Morigâlæ frowns, but before she can ask why, Findekáno grips her forearm, shaking his head. His own face is as pale as Vílë's, sorrow and anger alike lurking in his expression. Perhaps it will be safer to ask later, if ever it is.

Silence falls again, until the door opens, Makalaurë standing there in the frame, pale eyes watching them all. "What happened when you rescued my brother, cousin?" His voice is tight with something she cannot put a name to, save that it is many things.

"Many things." Findekáno lets go of Morigâlæ's arm, drawing a deep breath without looking at Makalaurë. Pushing to his feet, and turning to face his cousin, chin up and expression closed. "I shall assume you're referring to his hand and wrist being left behind on Thangorodrim when I could not free him from the cuff that bound him."

"I would hear the entire story." Makalaurë steps outside, shutting the door gently. "Now."

Vílë reaches out to tug on Morigâlæ's sleeve, tilting her head away. A story that she thinks shouldn't be told to a wider audience yet, though it sounds to be one that should be remembered.

"You can stay, Morigâlæ. Even if my cousin would rather you didn't." Findekáno glances at her and Vílë. "I would have someone other than Kano know it to retell to others."

"Do you not trust me to paint you as a hero, cousin?" Makalaurë smiles, all sharp edges and ice.

Findekáno snorts, shrugging. "You will tell it as you see fit, and Morigâlæ will tell it as she tells histories, and Russandol and I will remember it, and that is all that I care." He gestures to the bench, inviting Makalaurë to sit.

It is a long moment of silence once Makalaurë does so, leaning against the building behind in apparent ease. Waiting for Findekáno to tell the story, however long or short it will be.

"After you told us about Russ's capture, and your refusal to respond to the messenger, I couldn't just sit here like you did. I took my sword, my bow, and the only harp left between the rest of our cousins, and snuck out before the dawn."

"Alone?" Makalaurë lets out a quiet huff. "That was foolish, Finno. Your father could have lost you, and then where would we be?"

"Not here." Findekáno pauses, holding Makalaurë's gaze a moment. "Besides, over the mountains, there was enough murk that even the daystar can't dispell the shadows entirely. No one could see me. Though I might have been able to reach Russ sooner if it had been lighter. I'm not sure how long it took me to find Thangorodrim, as I couldn't properly tell when the daystar rose and set, though I've been told I was gone thirty-three days, all told.

"When I found Thangorodrim, I climbed - above the worst of the murk, which clung mostly to the feet of the mountain, and the low plains all around. Looking for a way in, since no one could tell me where Russ was held by Morgoth."

"We didn't know, and I doubt any of Morgoth's servants would have been any more inclined to tell us than the messenger sent with lies." Makalaurë grimaces, shaking his head. "So you found what we already knew, that there was no way in."

"Nothing I could see, no." Findekáno's lips twitch a little, not quite a smile. "So I decided that I wasn't going to waste the trip, and perhaps, too, I could give Russ some hope, and I sat down on the barren rock to play my harp. And sing."

Makalaurë lets out a bright laugh, shaking his head. "Only you, Finno. Or maybe Finderáto might do the same, but he'd not have been alone."

Findekáno shrugs, and shifts slightly on his feet. "Perhaps. And I wasn't alone, I just couldn't see where Russandol was. He started singing when he heard me. We kept it going back and forth until I found the base of the cliff face he was on." He pauses, swallowing a moment, his gaze turned inward. "Hanging from. I couldn't see a way up."

He falls silent a long moment, and none of the rest of them broke the silence. Letting him return to the tale as he could.

"He asked me to shoot him, Kano. And I was going to do it. Better to be kinslayer a second time over than see him suffer longer. At least once I could see through my tears enough to aim." He pauses again, running a hand over and between the messy braids of his hair. "I offered a prayer to Manwë, that the shot went true, and I got a little more than I expected."

"The eagle." Makalaurë's voice is flat, controlled, and Morigâlæ flicks a glance to his expression - smooth and closed, refusing to share anything of his thoughts.

"Thorondor, he gave as his name. He stayed my hand, and was able to lift me to where I could reach Russandol. I had hope that it might be enough, even when I saw the cuff on his wrist. Steel, bound to the rock with a pair of spikes on either side. Too deeply driven in to pull loose, not without tools and more knowledge of smith-work than I have. And nothing would break."

Another deep breath, and Findekáno still is refusing to look at anyone. "He asked me again to kill him, but I couldn't this time. Not with him close enough to touch. Close enough that Russ could sit on the shoulder of Thorondor while he clung to the cliff face." Findekáno touches the hilt of the sword that hangs at his belt. "I had my sword. I brought home as much of Russ as I could, cut as close to the cuff as I could.

"He didn't scream. Not once the entire time. Begged, yes, but never screamed. I wrapped his arm as tight as I could with strips from my cloak, and held onto him until Thorondor brought us back here."

"I saw." Makalaurë lets out a slow breath, not quite a sigh. "You brought him home, Findekáno Nolofinwion. There is nothing I have in my power that is enough to thank you for bringing my brother back."

"I didn't do it for you." Findekáno gestures sharply to wave off the words already spoken. "I did it because we cannot be divided against Morgoth. Because I still count Russ as a friend dear to me as I did before all of this, and I would not leave him to the Enemy. You are welcome for his return, Kano, but do not mistake this for anything but what it is."

Something flickers in Makalaurë's eyes at that, but it is hidden swiftly, and she cannot figure it out. Something he knows from being close-kin to Findekáno and to Nelyofinwë (Russandol and Russ, on top of the rest of the names, and which he would wish to be called, she cannot know without asking).

"Then I shall not."

Makalaurë shrugs, and stands once more, leaving without a word of farewell, and after a moment, Findekáno slumps on the bench again, though he doesn't speak. Nor is there anything that she knows to say to ease whatever trouble that weighs on his shoulders.

Morigâlæ pushes off the bench, Vílë looking relieved as she follows, both leaving the heavy feeling around the healer's building behind.

"If anyone comes to hear histories tomorrow, Vílë, tell them there shall be none. I need to think on what has been told, and how best to tell it again for others."

To think on it, and too, perhaps, to find the rest of it, for how is it that all came to be that Nelyofinwë was where he could be rescued at all, and not where Findekáno would be trapped with him? Stories to learn, and ones she does not think she will hear here, and that too bears thinking.

She returns to her own small camp at the edges of the larger one, and shuts out the world for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> laurê (primitive quendian) - gold (of light); the word became laurë in quenya  
smalta (primitive quendian) - gold (the metal)  
kwettabalî (primitive quendian) - words of power (lit. word powers)

**Author's Note:**

> **Cast list (in order of appearance, by first introduced name, main and major supporting characters only):**
> 
> Morigâlæ - Galdelaikweni aud Solos Avari, primary POV character, also called Moricala (Quenya) and Môrgalad (Sindarin)  
Krumbitê - Galdelaikweni aud Solos Avari, brother to Morigâlæ, also called Hargam (Sindarin)  
Irissë - Noldor, Fingolfin's daughter, also called Aredhel (Sindarin)  
Vílë - Noldor, OC  
Findekáno - Noldor, High King after Fingolfin, also called Fingon (Sindarin)  
Nolofinwë - Noldor, High King and brother of Fëanor, also called Fingolfin (Sindarin)  
Kanafinwë - Noldor, second of Fëanor's sons, also called Makalaurë (Quenya mother-name), Kano (familiar nick-name based on his father-name), and Maglor (Sindarin)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Pyre](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20993981) by [Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/pseuds/Morgyn%20Leri)


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